A Poet's Chance
by lamp-of-hetalia
Summary: RusLiet RussLiet Human AU. Lithuania and the other Baltics run a drycleaning establishment. Russia is a frequent visitor. Toris writes poetry. Etc,etc. Human names used.


A/N: This is a present for my little sister. I'm not particularly fond of this pairing, and I don't know much about it, so I apologize in advance for any OOC characters and stuff. Anyway, here you go:

Toris was in the back room, taking his lunch break and writing when Ravis came running through the door.

"That man...he's here again." Ravis trembled, as he usually did when a customer that neither he nor Eduard wanted to deal with came in. Sighing, the Lithuanian man tore the scrap of paper from the notebook he was using, placed in in his pocket, and headed out to the front room. His friend had seemed a bit more on edge than usual, so it was probably one of the regulars that frightened the other two this time. When he rounded the corner, he saw Eduard handing a sweater to a nice looking man.

"Eduard? Ravis said-" He began, but Eduard stopped him and pointed to the bench in the corner. There sat one of their regulars, a tall and somewhat scary man that came in every Tuesday to have one or two of his suits dry cleaned. From his appearance, Toris had come to assume that he was either a lawyer, banker, or a general businessman. His suits were expensive and he treated them with the utmost care, partly due to the fact that he didn't want to pay for them if he damaged them and also because he had become a bit fond of the man. While he didn't speak much, when he did, the man was nothing but polite. He always smiled at Toris and thanked him when they were done with the transaction. Ivan Braginsky, the tall, intimidating, and from what Toris had seen, kind man. There had been several instances when Toris had seen Ivan help someone across the street or pay for a stranger when they had forgotten their money. But he was horribly scary looking and most people tried to steer clear of him, especially his other two co-workers. Whenever Ivan would come in and Toris was not working the front desk, Ravis or Eduard would come and find him so that he could deal with him.

"Mr. Braginsky?" Ivan rose at the mention of his name and stepped over to the counter.

"I'm here to pick up my two suits and drop off two new ones." He handed Toris the call number and smiled. Disappearing into the back room, he picked up the suits, took them out of the plastic to see if everything was done correctly (Eduard had a habit of either forgetting to actually dry-clean the clothes, or accidentally leaving things in the clothes) and came back to the front room.

"Here you are, sir." Toris handed him the two suits and rang him up on the register, "That's 30 dollars."

Ivan handed him his card and he ran it through, giving him a new number for the suits he dropped off today.

"Thank you." He smiled at Toris and went to exit. When he was out the door, Eduard gave a sigh of relief and turned to him.

"I don't know how you deal with him, he's so frightening." Eduard took his glasses off and pinched the skin between his eyes.

"He's not that bad, he's just intimidating." Toris said, returning to the back room to finish his break. He sat down at the table and reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper, only to find it missing. His fingers searched frantically for the slip, but to no avail. Had he dropped it? Left it somewhere? He didn't remember taking it out anywhere and if he had, he certainly wouldn't have left it. With a sudden fit of panic, Toris tore through the room, and then the room where the kept the suits, and then the front desk, and then back to the break room. It was nowhere to be found.

"Did you lose your poetry again, Toris?" Ravis asked, leafing through Toris' notepad.

"Yes."

"Why do you tear them out anyway?"

"It's a bad habit, if I'm not finished, I tear it out so no one can come across it and read it." He took the notepad from Ravis and looked through it, making sure he hadn't left the paper in there.

"I'm sure it just got thrown out." His friend replied.

It had been a stressful Monday for Ivan. The deal his company had tried to make with the opposing company had fallen through, he'd managed to spill his lunch on himself, and his car broke down a mile away from his house. All in all, it was an awful, horrible, miserable day. He was now standing in his bathroom, looking a bit worse for wear in his slightly tattered suit (he'd walked home). As he took off his pants, he felt something attached to the lining of the fabric. Pulling it out, he found that it was an off-white piece of notebook paper with something scribbled on it.

_Mysterious, dark, and wondered eyes_

_violet as the midnight sky_

_hair as silver starlight _

_kindred fire in the heart_

_kindness encompassed in your chest_

_brings my heart a willing beat_

_love in the form of rest_

_wishes brought as hopeful treats_

_wonder cannot be named_

_unless you have so claimed _

_in your heart, in my head_

_beauty only comes in your stead._

It was just a scrap of paper and though it seemed to cut off abruptly, it left Ivan blushing like a schoolgirl. A love poem, there was a love poem in his pants. He tried to recall if anyone had gotten close enough to slip the paper into his trousers, but then remembered that he found it attached to the _lining_ of his pants and if anyone had reached inside of his pants to put a piece of paper in them, he would have noticed. The paper had not been written by him, and he'd most certainly not put it in there himself. Turning it over in his hands, he saw a small mark in the corner on the back of the paper. He could barely make it out, but it seemed to be either the subject or the title of the poem. Squinting, he tried to figure out what it said. Maybe, 'Iwen' or 'Iuan'. Ivan. It couldn't say Ivan. It said Ivan. He was beginning to grow more concerned. A love poem that, now that he thought about it, sounded like it was written about him, and had his name on it, was on the inside of his pants. The gesture was cute, but he couldn't figure out how it had gotten _on the inside of his pants_ and that's what worried him. He glanced down at his watch; it was close to midnight. The poem and its author would have to wait until tomorrow.

Toris had forgotten about the lost poem days ago. He'd continued on other things, finishing up another one he'd left alone for a while, and starting a few new ones that didn't quite pan out the way he had wanted. It was an unusually humid Tuesday in the middle of June and Toris was stuck minding the counter. Ravis was out sick—an apparent bad stomach flu—and Eduard was on his break. They'd opened five hours ago and there had been no customers so far. He sat, scribbling out whatever came to mind. The bell rang as the door to their shop opened and he didn't look up, deciding to finish the stanza while the customer approached the counter.

Ivan stepped up to the counter, checking his watch. He had to be in the office in fifteen minutes. His job was waiting, and he needed to be out of here NOW. When he looked up from his watch, the attendant that always took care of his orders was staring intently down at a notebook, tapping his pencil on the paper. Ivan's eyes focused on the words. Central-lined poetry, handwriting slanted to the right and a curl to the end of the 't'. All moisture left his throat as he stared down at that paper, slowly assuming that this man, whom he had barely talked to, had written that poem and stuck it in his pants. Ivan cleared his throat, more an attempt to moisten it rather than get the other's attention. Really, he'd rather not have his attention. Nevertheless, the attendant looked up at him and _smiled, _smiled as he always did when Ivan came in. How could he not have picked up on it? A lump replaced the parched feeling in his throat and he now found it quite difficult to breathe evenly, let alone talk.

"Ah! I'm sorry Mr. Braginsky. I didn't see you there. May I have your ticket?" Toris—Ivan had found his name tag—asked, tearing the piece of paper he had been writing on from the notebook. Ivan vaguely registered the idea that maybe—_maybe—_this man had not meant to leave the poem in his pants. In hindsight, he remembered seeing the attendant—Toris, he reminded himself—tear a lot of paper from that notebook. But what would be the chances of accidentally 'dropping' a poem about him into _his specific pants. _

"Mr. Braginsky?" The man asked again.

"Ah. Oh. Yes. Here," Ivan focused on pulling the ticket from his wallet. He didn't want to look at him; the man who had written about him in secret. The man who had portrayed him as something more than frightening. His fingers trembled slightly and he steeled himself to keep from showing his distress in front of the other, handing him the ticket.

"Alright, I'll be right back." His smile got wider and Ivan found it hard to breathe.

He had been late to work. He had been distracted at work. All he could think about was Toris. Varying thoughts, same subject: what were his motives, how did he come to like him (if he did indeed like him), _why_ did he like him? When he had finally arrived home, he nearly tore his room apart looking for the note. It was underneath his bed; where it had apparently fallen from his bed stand the night before. He looked it over once more, analyzing the definite similarities in the writing on the note and the writing he had seen this morning. The centralized stanzas, the certain slant, and the curve to the end of the t's. It was the same handwriting. It was the same person. How could he have not noticed?

The next couple of weeks were difficult for Ivan. He had considered changing where he dry-cleaned his suits, but their establishment was the only one on his way to work. So he ended up just avoiding eye-contact and nearly blushing uncontrollably every time he went. I van paid more attention now; he had noticed that when he came in the other attendants went and got Toris and Toris was the only one who ever dealt with him, he noticed that Toris did, in fact, tear out his writing frequently, and he also noticed that he seemed to drop them a lot. He'd found a couple of scraps of paper on the floor, all of them unfinished and about random things. There was a box on his nightstand filled with them now. Toris hadn't meant to drop the poem in his pants, Ivan had concluded.

Before he knew it, the box was half-full and he had come to look forward to finding more. Ivan would smile back now, and admire the small things about Toris. He was quiet and polite, very agreeable with a smile that would stun the best of them. His eyes were bright and full of life, a pale blue that made Ivan think of frost coating the sea. Nothing was the same anymore. He hadn't even said more than two sentences to this man, and he found himself falling for him more everyday. Then, one night when he added a new poem to his collection, he picked up the one that had started all of this and got an idea. Ivan wanted to get to know Toris better, that was for sure. But he couldn't just blatantly ask him out, that would be crazy and he's probably get rejected. So, Ivan went with the only thing he knew Toris liked: poetry.

When he'd decided to write Toris a poem, he didn't imagine it would be this difficult. Toris seemed to produce multitudes of them in minutes time and Ivan didn't know how he did it. They were always so well worded and beautiful. There was no way Ivan could compare. Everything he wrote down was simple and oddly worded and he couldn't possibly give that to Toris. He'd think Ivan was senile. After a week of half-finished poems thrown in the garbage, Ivan picked the least awful one and finished it, folded it up, placed it in his suit pocket and headed out for the day.

~~~~~~  
It had been a normal Tuesday until Toris had gone through today's clothes to make sure there was nothing in the pockets. Everything had been normal and fine and good and he'd been completely happy with the way things were. He'd checked the pocket of Mr. Braginsky's suit pants and pulled something out. Toris unfolded the scrap of paper and found words. Briefly, he tried to convince himself to not read it, but when he saw it was titled "Toris" he couldn't help but find out what it was.

_I've looked on from afar _

_Never really knowing who you were_

_Blue eyes like a clear day's sky_

_Frost-bitten sea in the night_

_Patience and quiet kindness_

_Embodied in your chest_

_Poetry heavy in your head_

_**beauty only comes in your stead**_

Toris almost dropped the paper right there. His last line from the poem he lost. How? WHAT? He turned the paper over and found more, "Your poetry is wonderful, you should stop dropping it in people's suits and on the floor. The one titled 'Ivan' is particularly wonderful, and inspired this one. Do you want to go to dinner some time? ~Ivan Braginsky" Panic hit his system, he'd managed to drop the poem about Ivan, and have Ivan stumble upon it. He never signed his poetry, so Ivan would have had to watch him and figure out he was the one that wrote it. Toris ran over the poem in his head again, Ivan liked him? Ivan, whom he'd watched and admired for two years. Ivan, who was so kind and so _beautiful_. The note burned in his hand, aching for him to answer it. But he didn't know really anything about him. He'd have to wait until he came in next. Every nerve in his body turned to ice. He had never meant to let Ivan know about this weird crush he'd developed on him, how was he going to handle this?

The dry-cleaners closed at 8pm and Ivan knew he had plenty of time after work to get there, but he was still on edge all day, avoiding his boss so he couldn't possibly be asked to stay over tonight. When it came time to leave, he calmly walked to his car and headed out. He'd dropped off his suit with the note in it's pocket this morning and hopefully, Toris had found it. If he hadn't, well, Ivan hadn't thought that far ahead. He pulled into the parking lot (in furthest possible spot, so he wasn't seen) and calmed himself before getting out of the car. Maybe Toris really didn't like him, maybe he was wrong and that random poem stuck in his pants was about someone else and what the hell. Ivan was a grown man. Why in the world was he fretting in his car like a schoolboy? He forcefully stopped himself from shaking and got out of the car.

His blood ran cold as he entered the shop and saw him. Ivan forced himself to go forward, and hoped that he wasn't writing angrily in his notebook about _him. _He once again found it hard to breathe as the dreadful lump formed in the back of his throat. Oh, he had to be writing about _him. _Toris hadn't noticed him, though he was standing right in front of the counter.

"Uhm, I-uh, Hello." His voice seemed like it was five octaves higher than it usually was. Toris finally looked up at him and he stopped everything, Ivan even thought he stopped breathing. His pen dropped and Toris stood awkwardly.

"I-Hel-Hello." He snapped his notebook closed.

"I-uhm, You got my note, I'm guessing." Ivan's face tinted a bright pink. Toris nodded.

"Do you, I mean, would you consider, going to dinner with me?" He could hear his heart pounding. But then Toris smiled, and _**oh **__that smile was worth it. That smile was worth everything._

"Yes, I would love to."


End file.
